


honey sweet

by ChloeDeborah



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 16:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21284900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeDeborah/pseuds/ChloeDeborah
Summary: Merlin, Weymouth’s Mystery Boy and Local Crytid—or he used to be when they were younger—sits perched onto the stone window stool, dressed in a thick turtleneck, dark jeans, and with his beat-down backpack slung over his shoulder. He points at the window’s lock and smiles bright and beautiful. His cheeks are rosy red and his eyes flicker like gems in the low light coming from the room and Arthur’s heart skips a beat at the sight.Oh bugger.He thought he was over this.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 242





	honey sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Title after a song by the same name, _Honey Sweet_ by the band Blossoms.

**Honey Sweet**

**THIS, **Arthur decides when he steps out of the cab and into the relentless December weather, is the first and final time he returns to Weymouth for the holiday. His father be damned. 

Getting from the student halls in London to the front steps of his father’s red-brick manor, has taken him a grand total of four hours and thirty-five minutes. Granted, most of the one-hour delay was caused by the marvel that is the South Western Rail and London’s rush-hour traffic, but the fact remains that his father lives nearly four miles from the nearest signs of civilisation and it still takes a twenty minute cab-ride to get home from the station. There isn’t even a proper road leading up to the manor’s grand gates—It’s more of a trial, really, with no decent lighting or paving whatsoever. And when you think you’re nearly there, it’s still another sixty-two paces to the front door. 

Arthur is soaking wet by the time he manages to haul his baggage inside the foyer. The rain drips from his woollen coat onto the expensive marble floor, but he can’t be arsed to care about that right now. Inside the house it’s awfully dark and the air feels frigid on his skin—not just because the heating has been off for three days. 

Throwing his coat and damp scarf haphazardly onto the nearest radiator, Arthur makes his way to the sitting room. 

December is his least favourite month of the year. It used to be fun, back when he was a child and Morgana still lived at home. Her birthday is on the fifteenth and it was the only day of the year their nanny would allow them to have marshmallows in their cocoa (and she would pretend not to look when they spilled all over the edge of their mugs). This year though, Arthur hasn’t seen his sister face-to-face since Easter. Sure, they’ve Face-timed and texted, but it’s been lonely without her. And besides that, there is always the fact that their family was never the one for the festive season. Arthur can’t even remember the last time they celebrated a proper Christmas at this house, and this year is certainlybound to be disastrous—as Arthur will be all alone with his father. 

Morgana is lucky he enough to be spending the holidays with her new boyfriend and his folks over at Bath. And Catrina certainly won’t show after that disaster of a divorce she and Father had just two months ago. She was the only person in the house who ever thought of putting up the Christmas tree. Arthur has heard she’s currently living with her mum somewhere in a rundown flat in Leicester. 

Father, on the other hand, appears to be entirely unaffected by the split. 

In fact, he had written Arthur a very formal email, informing that he would be spending the weekend with his latest conquest—ahem, his much younger secretary named Josephine Bruins—and that he would most definitely be back before Christmas Eve. 

So gracefully sent from his iPhone. 

Needless to say, Arthur had promptly deleted the email. 

Sometimes, he is almost glad for the fact that his real mum has been buried underneath a thick layer of dirt eighteen years ago. If she could see the man her husband turned into, she’d be turning in her grave. Speaking of which, he should probably visit her again sometime soon. 

But first, the more pressing business, such as getting something to eat and turning up the heat because he can’t feel his fucking toes. 

As soon as Arthur has cranked up the thermostat to a generous 23 degrees for the entire manor, he makes a beeline for the kitchen and starts pulling open all the cabinets and cupboards. His father clearly hasn’t gone shopping since before he left last Thursday, so Arthur raids whatever the hell he can find. Which isn’t much, Just half a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of mouldy bread (which he throws out, he’s not a savage), and a carton of milk which is one day past its expiration date. 

It’ll do. 

It certainly won’t kill him, Arthur thinks. He’s a student after all, and he’s had much worse to endure in the last couple of months. Besides, he hasn’t had a decent meal since the pita gyros he got with Lance as hangover meal somewhere around noon. His stomach had started to complain embarrassingly by the time Arthur hailed a cab at Upway Station (and he is also feeling quite lonely in his father’s large manor and Arthur is a comfort eater—though that is something nobody needs to know). 

So with his hands full, Arthur climbs up the two flights of stairs to his bedroom, leaving his luggage for tomorrow to worry about. 

**A HOT SHOWER **and half an hour later, Arthur finds himself settled underneath the fluffy duvet of his childhood bed; a ridiculous four poster complete with a red velvet canopy. He is dressed in his softest pair of sweatpants, and his comfiest jumper—a ratty old thing, fraying at the edges and the colours muted. It makes him feel a little bit out of place in his bedroom. It does no longer feel like _his_ bedroom anymore. Or his house, for that matter. After so many months in London, it feels as if he’s outgrown Weymouth. The room contains barely anything personal of his anyway and it doesn’t even smell familiar anymore. Everything he once owned is now stowed away somewhere in the fifteen square metre bedroom in London, which he shares with Rowan Valiant (an utter pillock, if you must know). 

The only two things that remain from his childhood in his bedroom, are the model aircraft on the cherry-wood dressed and the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling of his four poster. The exact same pattern is repeated on a bedroom ceiling four miles away from his own, so that they could always look up the same sky. And though Arthur knows it’s silly, he still feels guilty for not having the stars up in his new bedroom. 

At least he did take his photo collection with him. It used to hang on the inside of his cupboard, but he’s taken them down in favour of pinning them above his bed in London where he doesn’t need to worry about ruining the hand-painted wallpaper and antique furniture. 

_Tap._

Arthur sits a little bit straighter, pricking up his ears. 

_Tap, tap, _it goes again. 

It’s only four minutes to eleven, Arthur rationalises, way too early for a burglar to come knocking on the window(and no burglar would ever knock anyway). It’s probably just the rain, even though the rain stopped twenty minutes ago and Arthur is fairly certain that no trees sprouted anywhere near his side of the house in the last couple of months. 

_Tap._

And then it’s quiet. 

He swallows the nervous lump in his throat and dismisses the heat suddenly pricking in his neck. It must have been some strange bird. There’s tons of pigeons around the estate, a real plague according to their gardener. And there’s barn owls, and black birds and what not, so it’s not at all that uncommon to hear—

_Tap. _

Arthur nearly falls out of his bed when the tapping starts up again. 

Ignoring his sweaty palms, his erratic heart, and all of his common sense, Arthur swings the duvet off and stalks towards the window with a determined stride. He’s a Prescott, for fuck’s sake, known for being strong and steadfast and certainly not for being a coward in the face of possible danger. 

Bracing himself, he pulls up the blinds in one swift movement and instead of a bird or a burglar, he’s greeted by the sight of a boy’s face grinning brightly at him from behind the other side of the glass. 

It’s a strange bird after all. 

“Merlin!” Arthur gasps, almost relieved but mostly just confused, “What the fuck?!” 

Merlin, Weymouth’s Mystery Boy and Local Crytid—or he used to be when they were younger—sits perched onto the stone window stool, dressed in athick turtleneck, dark jeans, and with his beat-down backpack slung over his shoulder. He points at the window’s lock and smiles bright and beautiful. His cheeks are rosy red and his eyes flicker like gems in the low light coming from the bedroom and Arthur’s heart skips a beat at the sight. 

Oh bugger. 

He thought he was over this. 

It is fucking ridiculous how quickly the giddiness wells back up inside of him in a way he hasn’t felt since August. Nor has he felt his hands sweat quite like this in a while. He is afraid his heart might leap out of his throat, or that his knees will stop cooperating as soon as he makes a step. 

Arthur wants to tear the window open and pull Merlin inside into a tight embrace, but he refrains and curses himself for _wanting_. He had hoped that Merlin would stop having this effect on him after months apart, but they do say that distance makes the heart grow fonder. 

He shakes his head instead, feigning annoyance, “What?” He calls, “You wanna come in? Maybe take the front door next time, like a _normal_ person!” 

He has never fancied himself a good actor, but Arthur’s voice sounds surprisingly steady. The mocking and insulting comes to him like a second nature when Merlin is involved. Arthur just can’t help himself. 

Merlin rolls his eyes and then a muffled, “Let me in, you absolute twat!” Sounds from the other side. 

Letting out a shaky breath to steady himself as he fumbles with the lock, Arthur wonders why on earth he was so surprised to find Merlin here in the first place. Because he really shouldn’t be. It’s not the first time this has happened. Merlin is one hell of a climber and Arthur has seen him climb up the roof of their secondary school building too many times to count, but how he manages to climb up to Arthur’s second story window will forever be a mystery. There’s no ledge, no gutter, absolutely nothing to hold on to, and yet Merlin manages every time. 

“Haven’t I told you to stop doing that?” Arthur scolds when he finally tears the window open, “You’re going to fall to your death one day and I won’t be the one calling an ambulance for you.” 

“Good evening Arthur, ’s lovely seein’ your ugly mug too,” Merlin grunts in response, charming as ever. How Arthur ever fell in love with this boy is a wonder to even himself. 

Merlin clambers in, topples over the edge of the windowsill and onto Arthur’s expensive Persian carpet in a blur of black curls and gangly limbs. It’s all quite adorable, and just like that, Arthur feels his nerve settle. His knees steady and the blood stops rushing through his ears as he watches on. 

“Hey,” Arthur sighs breathlessly. 

“You’re such a pillock, Prescott,” Merlin hisses from his spot on the floor, not sounding particularly angry about the whole ordeal but rather pleased with himself for spooking the hell out of Arthur. He flashes his brilliant smile as he says, “I’m your best mate in the world. If I die, who else will get jailed for punchin’ your homophobic da?” 

“Hopefully nobody,” Arthur mutters as he reaches over to grab Merlin by the arm. 

He hoists the boy up with minimal effort, because Merlin still weighs like a bunch of grapes and Arthur is proud to say that he’s been working out ever since he started uni.

“You’re not punching him again, Merlin,” he says sternly, “I’m pretty sure he’ll press charges if you try again. You got off lucky last time.” 

Merlin just glares, pulls his arm free, and flops down on Arthur’s bed. 

“You mean, he got off lucky last time,” the boy huffs. 

Arthur just looks on helplessly as Merlin lies back on the bed, muddy shoes and all. The only reason this boy doesn’t have a criminal record, is because Arthur’s father just happens to have a deep-rooted appreciation for Merlin’s mum—who single-handedly raised a boy and twin girls all on her own for nearly ten years.

“No,” Arthur says, crossing his arm, “You weigh like a hundred-and-fifty pounds or something. If you ever managed to land a hit, I imagine it would feel a lot like feathers.” 

“Oh, I’ll show you feathers—!” 

Merlin lunges off the bed and propels himself at Arthur with the force of an avalanche. Arthur just barely manages to catch the boy—because really, Merlin is predictable like that and Arthur has spent more time than he’d like to admit cataloguing every minuscule detail of Merlin’s expressions—but the extra weight still catches him off-guard and it sends them both tumbling down to the floor. 

“Fu—”

For two blissful seconds, Arthur manages to hold Merlin down in a headlock, before the squirmy fucker manages to twist himself in Arthur’s arms and prod his sides merciless. 

“Aurgh—” Arthur groans, trying to roll away, but Merlin is quicker. 

He grabs Arthur by the wrist and yanks him back before launching a tickle attack (Merlin’s most successful technique up to date). Or something akin to it, because Merlin is all bones and sharp angles—Arthur’s fairly certain he’ll have bruises by tomorrow—but that doesn’t matter.He feels elated and it makes him giggle and laugh like a child. Arthur has missed this so much; the tussling and the ease of Merlin’s company. He’ll never meet a person that makes him feel the way Merlin does. 

It is almost as if Merlin is an extension to himself—something he hadn’t really noticed before, but certainly feels now that they’re back together. It feels a lot like being whole again. 

Good gracious, he sounds like a love-struck girl. 

And he _is_ a love struck girl, which is not something Arthur had expected from himself. He has never considered himself the one for pining and moaning, and yet Merlin has him wax poetry about. It is a bit pathetic, honestly. 

“Ow—” Merlin yelps, pulling his fingers from between Arthur’s shoulderblade and the floor. “Goddamnit—”

Arthur barks out a laugh and rolls them over. After that, it only takes a couple of seconds to wrestle Merlin into submission—it’s almost surprising how easily Merlin yields. He’s not really putting up much of a fight.

“Like I said,” Arthur says, out of breath, smirking down at his friend as he pins the boy’s wrist above his head, “feathers.” 

Merlin’s face is red with exertion when he glares at Arthur, though it’s mostly directed at the ceiling behind Arthur. It occurs to him that this position is possibly uncomfortable for Merlin, but he really can’t find the energy to care. He can have this, even if it’s only for a moment. 

“Like I said,” Merlin parrots in a mocking attempt to mimic Arthur’s accent, still looking at the ornate ceiling, “you’re a twat.” 

He doesn’t quite get it right, never does, really. Merlin isn’t naturally an RP speaker. Instead, he speaks and odd mix between the West Country of his mother and the Northern Irish of his father. He’s never gotten the hang of Arthur’s posh accent, and the imitated version is always a bad combination with Merlin’s crude way of words. 

“And your insults are getting old, my friend,” Arthur retorts, sitting down so that he’s straddling Merlin’s legs, “come up with something more inventive than ‘pillock’ or ‘twat’ and you might actually come across as moderately intimidating.” 

If Merlin notices how intimate (and well, not _erotic _per se, but certainly vaguely sensual to the point that Arthur has to do his best to suppress the flush rising cheeks) their position is, he doesn’t say it. He seems to ponder his options for a few long seconds, before he opens his ridiculous mouth and says with the most deadpan voice: “Clotpole.” 

That is all it takes for Arthur to burst out into an uncontrollable fit of giggles, “That isn’t even a word!” He wheezes. 

He feels the strength seep out of his bones and suddenly it is impossible to keep leaning on his arms. Just for a second, so that Merlin won’t notice, Arthur lets his weight drop and hides his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck before he thinks better of it and rolls off the boy to lie down besides him. 

“You said inventive!” Merlin protests as he leans on his elbows, “This is inventive, isn’t not?” 

Arthur stammers for a second, before settling on: “You’re impossible.”

“_You’re _impossible!” 

Arthur sighs. It’s the hopeless-in-love-kind-of-sigh. He kind of wants to do something really stupid right now, like roll over and kiss that wonderful grin of Merlin’s plump lips and maybe run his hand through those dark curls just to see if they really feel as soft as they look (Arthur knows for a fact that they feel as soft as they look, but he wants to try again, for science). 

But Arthur does none of those things, “Take of your shoes,” he says, “you’re ruining the carpet.” 

Merlin grumbles something unintelligible, but complies anyway. As soon as he has thrown his beat-down trainers in the corner of the bedroom, he settles back down on the carpet besides Arthur and pulls his backpack onto his lap. The bag was once a bright red, when Merlin received it as a birthday gift on his eleventh birthday—but the years are now clearly showing on the backpack’s canvas; dirty and worn by time but screaming ‘Merlin’ nonetheless.

“I take it you didn’t just break into my house to show off your rather pathetic feat of strength?” Arthur asks with a raised eyebrow, watching how Merlin tugs at the zipper of his bag. 

“It was hardly breaking and entering, you let me in,” Merlin scoffs, but his face morphs into something else entirely. The boy looks at Arthur through the corners of his eyes, “I came to feed you, actually.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, ma’s been worried sick about you—always askin’ me if you’ve been eatin’ healthy enough,” he eyes the empty peanut butter jar on the night stand, “Guess you haven’t.” 

“Point,” Arthur shrugs after a few uncomfortable moments of silence have passed. He’s been having a lot of carbs since he started uni, and fried foods, and sugar—basically all the cheapest stuff from the corner deli. It’s not like he’s got much of a choice. 

Merlin upturns his bag and the contents come spilling out, “So I thought, now that your da is outta town to shag—”

“Merlin!” Arthur barks, sitting up so he can glare at Merlin and not look like a total fool lying flat on the floor. 

“—All right, make _love_ to his _new_ _flame—_,” he corrects himself with a glare thrown in Arthur’s general direction.

“That isn’t much better!” Arthur hisses.

“—Anyhow, I thought I’d come over here and feed you myself.” 

Arthur composes himself and reaches for a small transparent white container amongst the spilled contents, “Apple slices, really Merlin?” He asks, eyeing the contents with mild interest, he’s even peeled them. There’s also a half-empty bottle of scotch (which Merlin probably nicked from his good ol’ da), one can of beer, three granola bars with chocolate chips, a ham-cheese sandwich wrapped in cellophane, and an opened bag of plain crisps. 

And crowbar. 

His eyes flicker briefly to Merlin, who is enthusiastically munching on one of the three granola bars now. Arthur decides he’s not going to ask about the crowbar. After all, this is hardly the first time Merlin showed up unannounced at his house. There have been several other incidents over the course of the years were the boy miraculously showed up in the middle of the parlour at four in the morning. Arthur has learned not to ask question. The boy’s got his methods. 

“I had nothing else at home!” Merlin says indignant, spraying crumbs everywhere, “Ma’s been hoarding all the good stuff for Christmas dinner and I am not allowed to take anything but healthy food. I reckon you need something nutritious anyway, felt like you were goin’ a bit soft around the edges.” 

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Maybe,” Merlin smirks and gives Arthur a friendly shove. 

Arthur shoves him right back, maybe a little too forceful, but Arthur has never been great at showing his emotions, so he just opens the container with apple slices and takes one out. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs after a second, his apple slice being the most interesting thing ever, all of a sudden, “I’m glad you’re here right now.” 

Arthur makes the mistake of glancing up at Merlin through his eyelashes then, when Merlin’s had snap up to meet his gaze—his eyes wild like a storm. 

For a moment, all they do is just—just stare at each other. Even when Arthur could look forever at this boy and never get bored, the silence is killing him. It’s the type of silence that didn’t exist between them before, heavy and uncomfortable, like he suddenly doesn’t know this boy in front of him at all. He should’ve kept his mouth shut and continued the banter. That at least, is something they both understand. 

“Merlin?” Arthur asks quietly, his throat tight and his heart clenching. 

At the sound of his name, Merlin breathes in sharply and his shoulders tense like he’s bracing himself for something. His eyes aren’t focused on Arthur either. Come to think of it, he hasn’t really met Arthur’s eyes this entire evening. 

“Do you want a drink?” Merlin asks. 

If Arthur was anyone else, might have fallen for the fake cheer in Merlin’s voice, but he isn’t and suddenly it is very clear to him that Merlin didn’t just come here to call him names and give him food. 

“Why are you really here?” Arthur asks instead. 

He is half expecting Merlin to lie, even though everybody in Weymouth knows that Merlin is absolutely fucking rubbish at lying. He still manages to get away with almost everything, but Arthur suspects that has more to do with Merlin’s ridiculously big eyes and his curly hair than anything else. 

“Freya broke up with me.” 

Arthur looks up. 

There is no emotion on Merlin’s face, only indifference in his voice. It almost sounds like he’s reciting a history lesson on top his head. 

Freya S. Lykke is (<strike>was</strike>) Merlin’s childhood sweetheart. She used to be the bullied because her—frankly—ridiculous surname(amongst other things), but is otherwise perfectly average. Like, _very _average; with her mousey brown hair and her even browner eyes. She’s a tad shy, but is friendly and always smiles sweetly. For as long as Arthur has known her, Freya has looked at Merlin as if he personally hung the stars and the moon in the sky for her (or punched some bullies (and got his hand broken in the process)). Arthur has always wondered why someone with such a spitfire personality would fall for someone as dull and timid as Freya, but everyone else was under the impression that no two people were better suited for each other than those two. 

Turns out that they were very wrong about that. 

Arthur sits up a little straighter, he suddenly feels a lot more alert as well, and curses himself for feeling father pleased with the whole turn of events. The fluttering in his chest feels an awful lot like hope. 

“What happened?” He asks, daring only to place a comforting hand on Merlin’s shoulder. 

The boy looks up through his long, dark lashes. His voice is still just as monotone when he answers, but there is a hint of something else in there—and it isn’t sadness of regret, “She says I’m gay.” 

Arthur blanches. 

“_I_’m the gay one,” he blurts out, because somehow he has lost all proper brain function at that statement. Which is, by the way, a ridiculous statement. Merlin isn’t gay—there just isn’t—he would’ve told Arthur, right?

“And because you’re gay I can’t be?” 

“Well—But you aren’t,” Arthur gapes, “gay, I mean—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Merlin shakes his head and gives a faint smile to make Arthur stop floundering, but it does nothing to dissolve the dread in his stomach, “Nah, ’s all right,” Merlin says, “told her as much. She should know, of all people, that I quite fancy girls and everything they’ve got to offer.” 

God, Arthur really does not want to think about _that. _

He never understood why the other boys in his class were always so hung-up about girls. Arthur had kissed exactly one girl, back in lower secondary, just to get what all the fuzz was about, and never discovered it either. Until he figured out that being gay was a thing. Merlin said he kinda expected it when Arthur came out to him, but Father was just as blind as Arthur himself had been. Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking when the man set Arthur up for yet another date. 

“So why didn’t she take your word for it?” Arthur asks. 

He’s failing to make sense of the situation. Merlin and Freya were the kind of couple you would expect to get married by the end of college. They had seemed so utterly in love last summer; all over each other, kissing at every turn, and sneaking around to do—well, Arthur tries not to think too much about it.

There always was something—something Arthur could never decipher when Freya watched him and Merlin together. He was never sure what to make of the look in her eye or the twitch of her eyebrow. Arthur had assumed she just pitied him for his hopeless crush. But in hindsight, she must have known Merlin even better than anyone else. 

Merlin meets his gaze, staring straight into his eyes for the very first time that night, “She thinks I’m in love with you.” 

Oh.

“Oh,” Arthur says out-loud. 

“You want that drink now?”

**IT TAKES ARTHUR A MOMENT **to find his voice again. And when he does, he still can’t find the words to say. He simply nods at Merlin’s offer for the drink and watches how the boy stands up to retrieve the two glasses Arthur keeps in his bedside drawer. The only reason those glasses are there in the first place, is because Merlin has the nasty habit of smuggling liquor from his father and then convince Arthur into getting plastered together. Arthur had always felt the need to indulge Merlin in those little rebellions. After all, Arthur isn’t the only one with father-issues. At least his dad wasn’t absent for the first fourteen years of his life. So accepting Merlin’s rebellions is easy—it’s just the mornings, where he’ll wake up hungover with Merlin sleeping on top of the covers besides him, that Arthur dreads the most. 

It makes the whole situation much more ironic, because the last time they did this—drinking in Arthur’s bedroom that is (no activities of the emotional variety)—was during the summer holidays. 

It had been Arthur’s last night in Weymouth and Merlin had been uncharacteristically quiet and snippy all week. That night, while a summer storm raged outside, Merlin had clambered into Arthur’s bedroom with a bottle of sherry while the rain dripped from his hair into his eyes. The boy had collapsed into the beda couple of hours in, looking every little bit like Arthur’s worst fantasies; glazed eyes, dark curls, and shiny red lips tasting like sherry and something sweet. It had just been a soft kiss on the lips—nothing more (and nothing less). Merlin didn’t remember.

They had both been so goddamn drunk.

This time though, Merlin settles down on the carpet opposite of Arthur—four feet between them—and pours the scotch. His hands are shaking every so slightly and his eyes keep nervously darting over to Arthur, but he doesn’t spill the precious liquid. It is only when he passes Arthur his glass—their hands briefly brush, and Merlin recoils so violently as though he’s been burned that a bit of the scotch sloshes over the edge of the glass. 

“So?” Merlin asks after what feels like an eternity, staring at Arthur over the rim of his glass. He manages to sound awfully confident, but the twitching of his toes and the way he keeps worrying the inside of his cheek, betrays how nervous he really is. 

Arthur glances up. 

“Don’t you got anything to say?” Merlin says. 

In all honesty, yes. There is quite a lot Arthur would like to say, but he can’t seem to form a coherent string of words to properly convey all the thoughts running through his head. And he most definitely does not trust his voice to come out without sounding like he is about to scream his lungs out (although that is something he would like to do, too).

“What’d y’want me to say?” Arthur croaks out instead. 

Merlin bites his lips—it’s bleeding—and throws his head back as he breathes in sharply, “Anything, really,” he answers, “literally anything. Get mad? Cry? I don’t know, I just—”

Anything.

“I—” Arthur sighs, “I don’t know Merlin.” 

The boy takes a large gulp of his scotch and swipes his tongue over his bottom lip to lick at the stray drops there. Arthur can’t help but follow the movement with his eyes. He feels his neck burn with guilt, but that has never stopped him before. And then Merlin’s eyes fly up to meet his, with the most challenging expression Arthur has ever seen on his friend’s face. He wants to hide from that gaze, but Merlin says: “Maybe you should ask me if she’s right.” 

Needless to say, Arthur is quite taken aback. 

“Wha—do—do you want me—are you certain?” He asks disbelievingly. 

“Yes,” Merlin says, not sounding very certain at all. 

Arthur considers it for a second. Merlin isn’t the type of person to jump into the unknown about his feelings—Arthur knows this. Merlin might pretend he trusts everybody with every part of himself, but he doesn’t. But on the occasion he does, he’s got something to gain of the situation. So if Merlin is sitting here, opposite of him, baring his heart for all to see, that means he _knows_ about Arthur. Or at least suspects about Arthur’s pathetic and faintly inappropriate crush on him. 

And honestly, Arthur isn’t sure if he’s ready to ask the question. He knows the answer, because there is only one answer possible, but that doesn’t mean he knows what he’ll do once he gets it. 

But.

“Okay, yeah—” 

But, Merlin asked. So. Arthur braces himself, takes another sip and hopes that he’ll get drunk soon enough to deal with, well, this.

“Was she right, then?”

“Yes,” Merlin breathes. 

Oh. 

In is head, Arthur had constructed several elaborate daydreams of how this particular scenario would unfold, but none of them had quite ended up like this. And strangely enough, Arthur doesn’t feel as overwhelmingly euphoric as he always imagined he would if Merlin ever were to confess. Arthur feels happy, incredibly so, but the whole situation feels also strangely surrealistic and he feels strangely detached from the world right now. 

“Say something,” Merlin pleads and his voice trembles ever so slightly, thick with emotion, calling Arthur back to the present, “please.” 

The boy’s façade is crumbling and it looks like he’s about to cry—Merlin’s eyes are shiny and his face is blotching red and Arthur wonders what kind of an expression he himself must be wearing to make Merlin look like _that_. It is not what he wants at all, but there really isn’t a protocol of how to deal with best-friends who just broke up with their girlfriends and then climb through windows to confess their feelings for you. 

“I—” Arthur tries, but his voice refuses to cooperate for the second time that night and Merlin is already gathering his stuff from the floor. 

“Fuck,” the boy curses under his breath, and then louder: “Fuck. Fuck. Bugger. I shouldn’t have—Arthur, I am so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean to put you—”

It is then that Arthur realises he’s got exactly _one_ shot at this. One, before Merlin is climbing out of the window and rushing home. 

Tomorrow, Arthur will receive a text from Merlin asking if he wants to come over for dinner because they haven’t seen each other in ages. Merlin will pretend tonight never even happened and Arthur will play along like the coward he is. It will be a bit awkward, but they will be best friends again before the end of the holidays. By next year, Merlin will have gone back to dating one those wide eyed girls that follow him around everywhere, and Arthur will have—hopefully—fallen for someone else. 

All of this will be a faint, but painful memory. 

And Arthur does not want that. 

He is certain he’ll never be _in _love with anyone else but Merlin. He’ll never be able to let him go and they’ll both be miserable because of it. 

“Are you—really, are you really in—_in_ love with me?” 

Merlin stops in his tracks were he’s crouched onto the floor to grab the remaining food items. He slowly turns his whole body towards Arthur and while he still looks like he’s on the verge of tears, there is also a sparkle in his eyes that Arthur prays is hope. Merlin bites his lip again and lets out a fragile breath, “I—yes,” he says, “Freya—yeah, she was right. I told her she wasn’t, at first. I needed some time to think about it, y’know? I mean, we’re best friends and I couldn’t possible be in—”

His eyes briefly flutter up to meet Arthur’s for a second, and Arthur feels the air knock out of him. In the last couple of years, he has learned to tune out Merlin’s appearance for the sake of his own sanity (he does _not_ want to be reminded of that time he was sixteen and horny), but sometimes the boy’s beauty simply assaults him. In the light of the lampshade in the corner, Merlin’s skin appears to glow golden, and his dark lashes cast shadows on those ridiculous cheekbones. 

“—have a crush on you,” Merlin corrects himself and his voice sounds a bit hoarse, “I was so sure she had just imagined it, but then you really went off to London and then you called after I had punched your da and I—I just, I just knew. I don’t even know what I knew, but it felt—it felt like I needed you.” 

Arthur swallows. 

“That was—Merlin, that was all the way back in September.” 

“I know,” Merlin answers sheepishly, but then he clears his throat and elaborates, “Freya broke up with me back in August. A week before you left.” 

“August.” Arthur echoes.

“August.” Merlin replies, his eyes glued to the floor and his posture rigid. 

“It’s December,” Arthur says, “it has been months, Merlin.” 

A silence falls over them then. It’s a tad uncomfortable, but despite his rigid posture, it doesn’t look like Merlin is about to leap out of the window, and so Arthur counts that as an accomplishment. 

“Are you angry?” Merlin asks suddenly. 

The boy’s eyes are still on the floor and his finger is tracing the rim of his now empty glass. For a second it looks like he contemplates going for a refill, but in the end he settles for just pushing the bottle out of his reach. 

“No,” Arthur says, a bit too harsh as Merlin flinches at the tone. So he takes a deep breath to settle his rapidly beating heart and tries again, hopefully sounding a bit more gentle this time, “No, I’m not. It’s just, a lot to take in, all right?” 

Merlin cocks his head, but he seems to understand, “I can leave if you want me to?” He offers hesitantly, like he really doesn’t want to, “We can talk another time.”

“No!” Arthur shoots up to reach for Merlin, but he doesn’t let himself touch his friend just yet, “I mean, don’t. We can talk now. Just let me—just let me think, okay?” 

Merlin nods, accepting the answer for now, but probably not for long. He’s never been the patient sort. 

Arthur feels faintly upset. Obviously, he doesn’t know exactly what led to the break-up, but it is kind of embarrassing that he didn’t noticed that his feelings were possible reciprocated. Especially because Freya _did_ notice. Admittedly, Arthur was a bit preoccupied with finally having Merlin to himself, but he just assumed that Freya’s general dislike for him combined with her part-time job, led her to leave the two of them alone that last week. 

He watches Merlin from the corners of his eyes. The boy has put his glass aside and his now crawling over the scant space separating them, settling down next to Arthur with their shoulders almost touching—only inches apart now. 

It feels good, having Merlin besides him. It’s where he belongs, but it’s just not enough. Arthur allows himself to lean into the warmth of the body next to him, closing the distance, and placing his head on Merlin’s shoulder. Arthur feels Merlin’s body tense for a brief second, but then the boy breathes out and lets himself lean back into Arthur. They fit together, so incredible well. Arthur doesn’t care what people think, that Merlin belongs with Freya—they’re wrong, they’re so wrong. 

“I love you,” Arthur says, his voice a low whisper. “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember and—”

“What?” Merlin interrupts, unnecessarily loud in Arthur’s ear. “You’ve been—you’re in love with me? This whole time?” 

Arthur frowns, “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Everyone else certainly has. I’m pretty sure Freya hated me because of it.” 

“She doesn’t hate you,” Merlin says, softer this time as his arm curls around Arthur’s, “she doesn’t hate you, but she does—she hates that you have something that she’ll never have.” 

_Me_, Merlin doesn’t say. 

“She’s braver than the two of us, you know.” 

Merlin lets out a chuckle, “She is brill,” he agrees, and there is something wistful about his tone—but not regretful, “but she just wasn’t _you_, and I only realised that when you were off in London.”

“I’m glad you did, though.” Arthur says. He leans a bit closer, tilting his head up to meet Merlin’s gaze, “I don’t think I could ever move on from you.” 

“Me too,” Merlin says with a bashful smile as he meets Arthur’s gaze head on. Arthur doesn’t even know which of the two statements Merlin is agreeing to, but he decides it doesn’t matter.

Their faces are only inches apart now, their breaths intermingling in the space between them and their noses almost touching. Arthur lets a brave hand caress Merlin’s cheek and he watches with wonder as the boy leans into the touch. He could count the freckles on Merlin’s face if he wants, but Arthur is far more interested in those soft, plump looking lips. He wonders if they will taste just as sweet as they did last time. 

“Can I kiss you?”

Merlin doesn’t answer him. Instead, he takes Arthur’s face in both of his hands and presses their lips together in a kiss. It’s dry and a bit clumsy, but then Merlin tilts his head and their lips slide together like a perfect puzzle piece. Arthur’s heart is beating loudly in his chest and he thinks Merlin must feel it too, somehow, through where they are connected. He swipes his tongue against Merlin’s bottom lip and Merlin opens his mouth and then the kiss is impossible wet and warm. It’s brilliant. The way their tongues slide together, the way Merlin’s hands feel tangled in his hair—it’s so much better than Arthur ever imagined it would be. 

“God,” Arthur sighs against Merlin’s lips as they part for breath, “I’ve wanted to do that since I was fifteen.” 

He feels the low rumble of Merlin’s laughter underneath his finger tips before he hears it, “I’ve only wanted to kiss you for two months, but I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to go without again.” 

Arthur laughs too, pressing his forehead against Merlin’s, “Yeah, same.” 

His legs feel cramped, so he drags Merlin onto the bed with him. And then, just because he can, Arthur kisses the boy again. They sit there for a while, snogging on his childhood bed while their hands wander to unfamiliar places. Arthur forgets to be shy, but he does feel a bit embarrassed to do this here—as if the room has got ears and eyes—however, he does feel grateful for the fact that his father isn’t here to hear them both moan. 

Eventually though, sleep starts to catch up with the both of them. 

Merlin curls himself into Arthur’s side, an arm coming up to splay across his chest. They lie there for a while. Just basking in each other’s presence for the first time since August. Arthur stares up at the canopy as he listens to their breathing evening out, feeling calm and content. 

As strange at as it is, he knows that his father will approve of the relationship. He’s been trying, for Arthur’s—but Arthur wonders if his mother will have, had she been alive. 

He likes to believe that she would. 

“Will you come to my mum’s grave with me tomorrow?” Arthur asks, hating how timid his voice sounds. 

Merlin’s body freezes besides him, only for a second, before he melts back into Arthur. This is something they don’t talk about often. Arthur has never asked Merlin to come to the cemetery with him, never really talked about his mum in the first place. It’s just not done between them, but Arthur wants Merlin to be a part of this. 

“Do you want me to?” Merlin asks, his voice equally small. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow, “That’s why I’m asking, aren’t I?” He says, trying for something that feels a bit more familiar to him. 

Merlin doesn’t fall for it though and smiles up at him—all soft and warm around the edges. It’s so full of _something_, that Arthur has to look away for a bit, because he suddenly feels something stinging behind his eyes. 

“Hey,” Merlin coaxes and he places a gentle hand at Arthur’s chin, “hey, look at me.” 

And Arthur does, tentatively meeting Merlin’s lovely grey eyes. They are a little bit concerned, a bit tired too, but they’re mostly full of love—there’s nothing of the judgement Arthur somehow expected to find there, even though he knows Merlin would never judge him. 

“Of course I’m coming with you.” 

Arthur smiles back and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Merlin’s mouth, pulling the boy closer to himself. 

“Okay,” he answers, feeling impossibly relieved, “okay.” 

As if there ever was another answer. 

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who has finals this week and decided it was a great idea to finish up a 7k fic about two fools in love? Me! I hoped you liked it though, because I really need this to be worth my failure in Finance & Accounting later this week. Anyhow, thank you so much for reading!


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